Category: Stella

stories of estrangement and our lost daughter, my best friend who has wandered away

Delightful Roar

On By LisaIn Faith, Plum, Stella, The ChefLeave a comment

Two nights in a row Plum went to bed quite unhappy with me. Highly unusual, this is our snuggle time, the precious moments when his last wonderings of the day spur questions that fascinate me, when he wants to be a bit closer, when he reverts to being just a tiny bit smaller. I love bedtime, when our guards fall down under the nightlight glow and we can be our truest selves. Not so on these last couple of nights though. The first was after being at church too late, bedtime pushed far enough back that self-control was lost. Somewhere between the church front doors and ours, he morphed from my sweet boy into a horrid monster who found no delight in my presence. I was good with that, not the morphing really, but I didn’t take it personally, it had nothing to do with me and everything to do with tiredness and my role as the enforcer of pajamas and brushed teeth and butt into bed.  He very nicely in his horrible monster voice told me he only wanted grandpa and that I could not snuggle with him. His precious sing-song voice roared that he wanted to put a sign on the door saying no grandmas allowed. Delightful child. I accepted the rules of engagement, sent in Chef and told them both to hush and go to sleep. The miracle of the sunrise brought my sweet boy back to me. Until bedtime the following night.

I have read that it only takes one time of doing something to create a habit with a cat, maybe Stella taught me this. I think Plum thought he was on to something, was in touch with his feline side. I declined his offer of exile and chose instead to pick up one of our love books and begin reading over the growls and hisses next to me. A weird thing happened though. He stopped. He settled in. He forgot that he was mad at me while listening to me tell him all the ways that I love him.

I get it, he is growing older. He wants his grandpa more. Trust me, I know, everyone wants grandpa more. Still, I want those precious moments as long as I can have them, those still quiet minutes before he drifts off.  Those are the times I remind him that my love will follow him anywhere. Right now he thinks those books are about him and I which is true. My love will follow him even when he turns into a horrid monster and turns me away.  But one day it will occur to him that I was whispering to him each night as he slide into slumber about God’s love. That a greater love than mine follows him. That a deeper love than mine forgives his monster morphing and knows the Sonrise will always lead him back. I am sure of this because sometimes I morph also, too tired to resist the bait, fall into temptation of anger and strong words, morphing into my own worst self. Then I rely on the love of God to bring me back, I listen for His loving words to invite me back into fellowship and grace.

Fortunately our morphings are pretty rare, we mostly delight in nighttime book reading and quiet questions. Maybe a new habit has begun though, one in which I am banished from his room and Chef is the hero. A new stage in our journey, perhaps. Like sneaky cats that seek out a new solution to any problem, I just have to find new ways to show him God’s love endures. Awareness of our changing relationship requires that I give him the space to push me away and know that I will never go too far. I can morph into that.

Aware

What Would Sarah Say?

On By LisaIn Faith, StellaLeave a comment

I sang you THIS LULLABY, a silly song every night as you drifted off to DREAMLAND. I can’t really sing but you didn’t know that then, you didn’t judge back then. My voice spoke God to you, brought love to you, in the midst of baby tears and scuffed up knees. Later, when I was kept under LOCK AND KEY, you had my voice on tape, I sang through my own tears and recorded my songs to send you to sleep with my love still close. How I wish I still had those tapes to send you, to remind you that I would give the MOON AND MORE to you, have given my everything to you, if you would JUST LISTEN. Now it feels like you are the one under LOCK AND KEY, you are KEEPING THE MOON, I am alone in the dark. The TRUTH ABOUT FOREVER is that SOMEONE LIKE YOU can only remember THAT SUMMER, not the years of singing before. ALONG FOR THE RIDE, forever connected even if apart, I sing quietly alone and wait for you to remember. I have never been a SAINT ANYTHING, I sing badly and make so many mistakes but my God how I would love to hear you sing to your babies. WHAT HAPPENED TO GOODBYE, where is our hello? All of our favorite stories include resolution, redemption. What would Sarah say about all of this? Wouldn’t she write the next chapter soon, where we come back together in a new way? Remember how we anxiously awaited the next book, bought the hardback as soon as it hit the store? I would pay anything for our next book to begin.  What would the it be called? CAST AWAY is already taken. I love you sis.

http://sarahdessen.com

Punishment Pebble

On By LisaIn Faith, Stella1 Comment

A pebble snuck into my slipper,  a tiny rock that wedged in between my foot and the soft cloth. I was busy cooking, I didn’t want to stop to touch my feet and then wash my hands and slow my progress. The irritant was no big deal, I shook my foot a bit, sending the pest to the left, to the edge, out of connection to nerve endings. Yes, better, back to work. About three steps later though, the pebble had rolled back to the lowest spot in my slipper, the snuggled in again to gain notice. Any reasonable person would at this point just stop and deal with the little issue and move along, barely a blip on the daily radar. I stood strong, on my little rock and my determination to carry on without being sidelined by something so minor. I have come to be quite excellent at ignoring the tiny quirks and pains of my body, it often betrays my wishes and works against my timelines. A pebble was doable.

Just like a seam along the toe of socks that has gone crooked, underwear that has lovingly chosen one cheek to cuddle with more than the other, sheets that aren’t tucked in and pulled perfectly straight, sometimes thing don’t stay in alignment. I have friends who address the issue immediately, who would have stopped and popped off that slipper to be rid of the rock at first poke. Do they have better self-esteem, to believe they don’t have to suffer? Do they have better understanding of their own power, to realize they can affect change? I am embarrassed to admit I walk around with the pebble and even forget to remove it when I change from slippers to shoes. Pebble awaits me next time I don the slippers. The problem may have snuck up on me but my avoidance has now allowed it to become fully mine.

I wasn’t always an avoider, I used to take the world by storm, at least I felt empowered to remove pebbles and straighten sock seams. I think it comes down to penance. A self-imposed punishment, just an added layer to say, “I get it, you think I did something wrong, I accept your time-out and I’ll raise you a pebble.” My broken heart has cracked a bit more recently, estrangement taken to an even greater level. How does one show enough suffering, that the number of pebbles is now so great I can barely walk with the weight of my shoes? Will my cards, letters, texts, phone calls, emails all filled with apologies and begging for fresh starts ever be enough? Is it ever okay to embrace joy or does that look like I have left the time-out chair, punishment to restart from the beginning, like a child who has to set the egg-timer back again, again, again, until they understand that sitting in the chair for 3 minutes is the thing and won’t kill them and no they cannot play their Nintendo DS while they sit or the timer will start over. Am I unknowingly losing punishment points by playing games of “Capture the Joy Moments?” I can’t know for sure. I can’t see the timer, see if it is ticking towards the end of punishment time or frequently being reset. What I can see is the blank screen on my phone, the call that doesn’t come, the text that never arrives, the empty mail box on the edge of my property as well as on my laptop. Silence, not even a tick tick tick.

What I am sure of is that I am not made to live in sorrow. I am not meant to be imprisoned by others lack of forgiveness, an inability to embrace mercy, to seek resolution. I am meant to be fully free of pebbles in my slippers and crooked socks, things that I can change. My heart is meant to be cared for lovingly, I am meant to care for others just the same. Heaping more pain on a wounded heart does not bring me closer to healing anymore than walking on a rock restores my balance. My soul aches for my Stella, so much so that I can feel her like a ghost so very close to me some days, yet I cannot change her mind. I can only change mine.

I can vow to remove the pebbles at first poke, I can promise to always straighten my socks when they firs go crooked. But really, I am better at finding joy. A mixed bag, poor self-care but excellent “God moment ” identifier. I can only try to grab some comfort in knowing that while the world brings punishment enough, I still embrace the joy as it comes. One day I will tremble, my slippers will fall off, I will shout loudly to the heavens, as my time-out ends and my joy calls home.   Tick, tick, tick, how long must I wait?
Lovingly
Tremble

Pursuing the Lost

On By LisaIn Arrow, Faith, Plum, Stella, The ChefLeave a comment

The commons area outside of the sanctuary was overflowing as the second service released, all those in Sunday school classrooms joined in search of coffee and conversation, the 3rd service attendees entered the building. A normal 11:00 site except that I was missing Plum, a miscommunication between Chef and the teachers in Plum’s crowded classroom area allowed him to be released into the larger church area without Chef really knowing. Plum tried to follow Chef but lost sight of him so he took his handful of newly crafted tissue paper flowers and colored bible verses into the sanctuary to lay on the seats we always choose. Seeing the chance to escape, he took the opportunity to hit the senior high room where video games awaited. Meanwhile, Chef sat chatting with coffee in hand, wondering when Plum would be released. Chef never picks him up, his class usually runs longer and chatting happens in the hallway after. I am the one who picks up, I linger in the commons during the second service and chat and tend to ministries and wait for them both to be done with classes.  I know eye contact with the teacher above the many rushing children and seeking parents means “I am here, I will take my grandson now.” The number of children, the crowded space by the door require that some of us stand further back. I look, she looks, I wait. That is our signal. We haven’t discussed this, it is honed from weeks and weeks of crowd control and successful connections. I haven’t discussed our method with Chef. One of the many conversations that don’t take place, considered unnecessary as we all play our parts, cogs in the machine. One added move, a change in the order, though, and we have a grandma frantically searching the crowded narthex for a little boy, a frenzied search that grows ever more so with each passing second.

Suddenly the sea of people who were mostly all friends became barriers, they were hindering me, I needed them all to MOVE OUT OF MY WAY.  Friends turned into strangers who I feared, I wanted to scream above the din. Cursing the circular design of the church as I wondered if Plum was going left while I went right. I stationed someone at the doors, hollered over the masses to Chef that our Plum was missing, gave the one sentence to Janet as I passed her in a hallway that every mother understands, “I can’t find Plum.” Trusted community mobilized, panic spiraling into terror with each passing second, spying Janet through windows as she searched left, right.  Rounding the hallways, afraid to move too far from the front doors, right, left, back into the sanctuary, around the commons, repeat. I could barely breathe. In my fear, it didn’t occur to me to check the one room that holds the most appeal: the video game and couch luring Plum into Chef’s Sunday school room. Another sweep through the halls and I heard voices first, “Found Him!” I arrived to see Chef, Janet and Chef’s co-leader all converged on this room, around a Plum who was slightly frustrated that he couldn’t keep up with his grandpa, a Plum who knew he would be found, didn’t even know he was lost.   Mustering the tiny bit of self-control I had left, I sank into a nearby chair and allowed them all to handle the first line of questions. I really wanted to push through even these most trusted friends and grab this child, hold on until my breathing was restored. When I summoned him to me, a necessary act that meant I didn’t doing any grabbing, I tried to find the balance between expressing how important it is to stay with trusted adults and not scaring him. Time will tell if I achieved that, I think a second conversation may be necessary. I want him to feel safe at church, safe with all of those adults, in the hallways, away from my eyesight. I want to feel safe with him more than a step away from me as well.

I tell Plum all the time he is my favorite. As of this writing, he is the only male grandchild so I am safe in this designator. This child has seen some horror in his life already, is feeling the pain of two critical but disconnected relationships, still is mostly well adjusted. He is my treasure. I reflected all day on Jesus’s parable of the lost sheep, leaving the 99 to search for that one who left the fold. I can only imagine the panic in God’s heart as He watches us wander off, as He sends out the search party to bring us back to the sanctuary. Oh my God, I am so sorry for those times I have wandered beyond the hallways that circle your altar, the times I ignored the calls of those trying to find me. That I have caused that terror in His heart while I played games, I could just cry again. Still, how comforting to know that just as I would never stop searching for my Plum, my God will pursue me, will stay after my soul. I am his treasure. So are you. Can you hear His frantic calls for us to return? Is He asking you to join a search party for a lost sheep?

My heart still quickens at possibilities yesterday. When I told mama what happened, admitting up front that we had a “bit of an issue,” her response was calming. “Pretty safe place to get lost, at church.”  I too get lost there almost every time I visit, lost in His mercy, lost in His grace. I am keeping my eye out for others who feel frantic, who feel lost or that something is missing. As God’s favorite, I need to be ready to join the search party. Today though, I mostly need to remember what was found and let go of the panic that still threatens to paralyze me. Plum was safe all along and he knew it.  So am I. God is always pursuing us, even more than a crazed gran after her favorite.

The Narcissism of Estrangement

On By LisaIn Arrow, Faith, Stella1 Comment

I long to snuggle under warm blankets and read easy fiction, drift off to sleep with pretend conflicts and made-up mysteries because life is so uncomplicated I go searching for embattled situations rife with nonsense to ease me into slumber. I want afternoons of browsing social media overflowing with kittens and recipes and DYI projects I will never master while I snack on candy and sip wine and worry only about the horrible combination of the two. I want my escapisms back, when worries felt big enough to warrant such behavior, when I allowed myself to wallow in hurts and slights that justified Pinot Grigio in the afternoon. It seems so frivolous now, incredibly self-indulgent when families are broken not by choice and inability to forgive but by new laws that leave them on airplanes and across borders, reaching helplessly for each other, souls truly in agony. The epidemic across America of millennials feeling self-righteous and thoroughly justified in lobbing  off family members who dare to hurt their feelings, who speak words that don’t generate “likes” in their hearts, parents who have shown themselves to be human and failed and not perfect Facebook or Instagram images, these young adults are suffering from a greed that comes from instant “friends” and shallow relationships, easy deletes with a button click that must be farcical to the rest of the world. My family has been destroyed by estrangement, the quick snapping off of our branch of the family tree. What must this look like to mothers who are wailing for their children across walls erected overnight? Children who cannot reach parents in hospitals, spouses who cannot complete educations together? Families ripped apart with roots that support generations are in agony, true bone crushing pain. I cannot help thinking of my children and the utter selfishness that comes of being white and literate and full of the self-esteem I made sure to nurture. These children are making choices to separate that must seem completely ludicrous to families cowering in fear of this very separation. I don’t think there is enough wine to escape into just how stupid this all is.

I am reminded of the trip Stella and I took to SouthEast Asia and how I was impacted by such a simple thing as water usage. I saw first-hand how precious this commodity was, not a concept that I merely read about. I saw women carrying clay pots of water, I saw children without. I came home and explained to our family that we would not be letting the water run when we brushed our teeth, we would not let the shower run while we wandered around choosing clothes, something I had always tried to teach but now felt passionately about. When we see real hunger, we can no longer waste food. Resources are not limitless, families are only precious when we understand that tree supports not just us but future generations as well. Those who have lost branches understand the value of a strong root system.

Our church is beginning a new ministry to pair children whose extended family may be far away with seasoned congregants who are willing to step in as “grandparents.” A beautiful response that understands the value of both ages for each other. Parents aren’t enough in a child’s life, riches come from knowing the world holds more love, special branches that  support the child with patience and generational wisdom. How indulgent and short-sighted for those practicing this new brand of selfishness call estrangement, to rob their children from the gifts they received from those very branches? How comically narcissistic  it must appear to the rest of the world, a silly bedtime story that has to be fiction, given the real problems of the day. As I consider the rush of lawyers into airports to address those abandoned and separated, lost and disconnected, my heart breaks for these people and for the silent millions across our country who are suffering from children who just don’t get that one day, it may be too late to reunite. Someone may put up a wall, erect a barrier, create a very real separation that will make your frivolous choices of escapism break your own hearts. I pray this is just a season of wild fiction, a crazy ride that wakes us up from our pretend conflicts and made-up mysteries, brings us back together into what is  truly important: family trees with deep roots and funky branches, knotted trunks and new growth. I just can’t grasp wasting such precious commodities when others are desperately wanting.

Jolted

On By LisaIn Arrow, Faith, Plum, Stella, The ChefLeave a comment

Having spent the better part of a month watching Grey’s Anatomy (very late to this party, yeah yeah) I am convinced of two things: 1) I am pretty much qualified to perform cardio-thoracic surgery and 2) shocking a person with major jolts of electricity is sometimes necessary to save them. Surely my pastor would rather I found my life lessons in his sermons, inspiration in my small groups, greater understanding of my world through bible study. Still trashy tv sometimes settles my tired mind into a place that can absorb all those things, allows the thoughts that swirl too quickly throughout the day to find a resting place as I snuggle in and just stop thinking. Who knew I would see the hope and plan of God in the antics of raunchy surgeons?

Certainly attending a funeral just days before my birthday ratchets up the mortality swirls and twists of my pondering. Considering who would come, what would they say, what would be my legacy, maybe enough to jump start my life. A God jolt asking if I feel done, do I want more. How many times do I need my heart restarted before I get up and accept the recovery and take the healing offered? Choices that land one in the place of requiring that shock of paddles onto chest, the bad food or extra stress, all amount to poisoning the temple where God resides. Would I really sully the sanctuary with bitterness and alcohol, with anger and inertia? Why allow those toxins into my life? Yes God can handle my very real feelings, but I have to be willing to give them up, not share them with Him and then take them back, gathered like precious jewels, family heirlooms, keepsakes.  Crying out to my Father with my aching heart is modeled for me throughout the ages, filling my heart back up with my moanings is not. An offering of my pain, not the pure goat or pristine lamb, but the bloated crippled hobbled creature I have nurtured for too long, that needs to be sacrificed at the altar. Laid bare and left behind. Carrying around a damaged heart without accepting the healing offered, so readily available, sullies my temple body and slowly squelches the life right out of me. Then the God jolt comes, the chance for a new life, a fresh start.

I listened during this funeral service as family and friends spoke of a life lived to the fullest, a life now mourned because her passing left a hole too big for anyone to imagine filling. I felt hit with the paddles, an invitation to leave such a mark, not out of pride but to have served God so fully that when I move on, someone might be inspired to carry on good stuff in my name. She was quite different from me, those words shared about her were uniquely hers. My purpose is mine, my legacy will be different. The chairs filled, the stories told, every one of us has our own chance to start today with that jolt to wake up and live towards our purpose or continue to carry our bloated disillusionment and pain. Which is worse, to admit to watching trashy tv or acknowledge that I felt my mourning during a an incredibly moving funeral service mix with an energizing force? I was electrocuted with hope for a new day, the possibility of a life lived with meaning.

I also learned from my time with the medical show that most patients didn’t expect to be on the table with the wires strapped to their chests, they didn’t know that was their day. I learned about the “surge” that comes with knowing death is near, the need to draw family close and right all the wrongs. What if instead of waiting for the surge, we pretended we were on the table, offering up our lives to God and letting him control the paddles? Jolt of new life, a restart today, an invitation to sacrifice our grudges and toxic unforgiveness and accept the grace of a new breath, fresh holy air into our lives.

Birthdays invite us to pause and reflect, to take note of progress and purpose and paths not taken. Funerals ask us to if we have made those birthdays meaningful, not just a count of the candles on our cake but an assessment of each day in between the year markings. God jolted my heart again this week, reminded me I still have more life to live, another chance to right some wrongs, to offer hope to others who see only darkness, a bit more love to share. My heart is electrified, my soul is opening to this new year. My legacy may be that I just keep trying, a broken woman who won’t stay down. What will you do with your surge? Today is our day, all of us. Wake up, let’s make it count.

Invitation

Mistake or Message, We Choose

On By LisaIn Arrow, Faith, Plum, Stella1 Comment

I learned somewhere along the way, before my daughter was born, that nursery rhymes were actually pretty dark tales. Instead of singing those songs to my new sweet innocent child, I changed the lyrics. I sang my own version of “Rock a Bye Baby” that always had me catching her at the end. I altered “Hush Little Baby” mostly because I was exhausted and could never remember the real song, but made up my own rhymes as I walked and rocked a colicky babe hours on end. She was born close to the holidays so Christmas carols were always on my mind, I could remember those easily. She fell asleep to those year round, as did her brother when he came along. “Silent Night” took on new meaning when sung to children at the end of the day. Gazing at their tiny faces, finally resting, finding the angels in the orneriness that so swiftly replaced, holiness that sustains parents.

As she grew older, I created tales for bedtime stories with her as the main character. She begged for these stories nightly, I drew from her experiences throughout the day to color my creations, after hours wakefulness when I felt the least able to make something new. I used her nickname, turned it backwards into an individual child who made bad choices or didn’t want to listen to her parents. She did things like not wear her shoes outside or put on a coat, she was often a bit rough with her brother. This child splashed all the water out of the tub or refused to eat at dinner. Then along comes the heroine of the story, the name turned back right, the child realizes her true self and in an instant begins to right her world. She puts on her shoes or her coat, she cleans up the water in the bathroom, she always says nice things to her brother and kisses his boo-boo’s. Stella adored these stories, they made sense of her life and unwittingly I was reinforcing her memory, reciting each night all that she had done each day.

I have told some stories like this to Plum, we sometimes skip books at night or snuggle in afterward them when he needs a bit more chatter time. He loves to hear my stories with him as the hero, who doesn’t? Mostly though we end our evenings with our “love books,” the sweet and beautiful books by Nancy Tillman. He thinks he is the child in each picture. I so hate that the day will come when it is just an illustration, when he realizes those words are for millions of children, not specifically him. Hopefully the telling every night of my love, the deeper theme of God’s love, will have permeated and it won’t matter.

As a writer, I understand that words matter. I edit and consider and ponder, wondering if my message is clear, concise, truly expressing my meaning. Still sometimes typos sneak through, auto-correct or a rushed publication, maybe a hurried post written with too much emotion and not enough distance, mean the wrong word is out, is said, is written and cannot be taken back. As many times as I have sang songs and read books and created stories to help protect my loved ones, I have mistakenly or wrongly allowed words that hurt to pass from lips or my pen. The entirety of my work surely can show the characteristic of my soul, can one piece be judged by the typo? How I long for the opportunity to edit old letters to my children, to republish the ones filled with love and support, to remind them of our life’s work together. Currently they are stuck finding all the errors, missing the messages. I pray one day my sweet Stella will change back into the other child, who rights her world and remembers that forgiveness and grace are characteristics of the heroine. I take comfort in knowing our story has not yet ended, we are in that middle part with the tension and suspense. One day God will bring restoration, my words will be filled with the glory of reconciliation. Until then, I will keep honing my gift, measuring my words, sharing my stories with those who understand that we are all a bit broken and imperfect.

Specific

Gliding into Gratitude

On By LisaIn Arrow, Faith, Plum, Stella, The Chef2 Comments

Tissues piled on the table, a glass of orange juice and a cup of hot tea, trashy tv that requires no mental faculties, a warm blanket, all indicators that a virus has hit. I lay on the couch searching for self-pity but none comes. It is just a cold, just a dumb sinus thing and how blessed am I that it waited until after the new baby, after school started, after Christmas and all the celebrations? So I snuggle under the blankets and Chef brings more tea and I doze, floating along in a daze, remembering that rest is healing.

When my children were little, I told them the fighter guys inside of them worked while they slept, that is when they got better. I explained those guys were too busy during the day dealing with all the stuff of just making their bodies work, so at night while they slept, or during the nap I was trying to convince them to take, that is when those guys could work on just the sickness. Medicine was extra fighter guys, sometimes we needed back up. I tell the same thing to Plum, he is more skeptical than my Stella and Arrow were. I often have to get more realistic with him, remind him the doctor always says rest and fluids, get some back up of my own. They slept, he sleeps, I slide into unconsciousness on the couch to the sound of trashy tv and dream of fighter guys healing me, a days gone by when I nursed my children.

The hot tea I drink, a new addition to my fluid choices. After at least a year of me saying I don’t like tea as we met weekly, Janet offered up a cup of the one I thought smelled so good. I curled my lip, I wrinkled my nose, I prepared to waste the cup she brought to me. I already knew the aroma was enticing, still I hated the flavor. I was sure. Yet I sipped, just one tiny taste so as not to be ruder than I already was and then discovered like many times at Janet’s house I had to deliver my “I was wrong” speech. She most often already knows and patiently smiles without telling me so. Like the silent fighter guys, there is healing in trying new things and especially in admitting our own mistakes. The tea I drink now replenishes the fluids I lose when I blow my nose every 10 minutes, warming my hands as I clutch the mug, reminding me of soul healing on better days. The blessing of friendship hovering like the steam that wafts with each new portion.

Chef attends to me, so much sweeter than I when he is sick. I am an impatient nurse to him, physical needs met and then out the door. Maybe more like an orderly, just dropping off food, cleaning up the tissue pile, next dose of meds administered, on to the next patient. I am blessed that my Chef is willing to bring more orange juice even when it isn’t time for rounds, that he will watch dumb tv with me and get up 100 times to deal with the beasts. He offers food multiple times and makes sure I have taken meds. He lets me rest, allows my fighter guys do their thing. He doesn’t add the emotional toll of making me feel like a burden, something I need to work on. Especially because I heard him sneezing yesterday. More tissues, more tea. More rest. As I heal, I must remember that sometimes sickness looks different, sometimes fighter guys need  back up doing waking hours. My Chef deserves a more attentive nurse, more than tea refills.

This forced slowdown is a chance to focus, to zoom in on either myself and my misery or on just how very blessed I am. As the tissue pile grows higher I can’t help but choose to list   all that is right in my world. Maybe I have a fever, maybe I have completely lost it, but laying on the couch with a warm blanket covering me, surrounded by evidence of love and the healing nature of my God, I can barely utter a worthwhile moan. Maybe it is appropriate to begin the new year resting up and drinking more tea, with fighter guys working extra hard. With no crystal ball to see what is ahead, never guessing all that 2016 would have brought, I consider my choices. Sink or Swim? I hope to share more healing this year, less germs and viruses. I hope to remember how it feels to be cared for when I am weak, how freeing it is to admit when I am wrong, how to generously accept others admissions. I hope to swim in a pool of gratitude, never sinking into despair or self-righteousness, ugly viruses that spread more readily than the flu.

May your year find less piles of tissues, extra fighter guys while you rest and many ways to nurture those around you. Warm mugs of tea, trashy tv and cozy blankets during the cold days ahead, shall we count our blessings with each other?

Float

My Own Rosary

On By LisaIn Arrow, Faith, Plum, Stella, The Chef2 Comments

I have a tattoo. It adorns my wrist, a charm bracelet that never dangles or is removed because it clashes with my outfit. I have to be honest to say that I chose to walk into the tattoo parlor not in my twenties or during a bachelorette party but when I was 50, fully aware of the life choice I was making. Because this marking falls on my wrist and onto my hand, if I am not wearing mittens, it shows. Exactly what I wanted. I get asked about it all the time, compliments from young people and musings about the point of it from those closer to my age. What I tell people is this: it is kinda like my own rosary beads. I grew up in the Catholic church, we were taught to pray a specific prayer for each bead on the necklace. This charm bracelet is my prayer minder, my constant companion, my own list of joys and concerns.

One charm is of a knife, fork and spoon set, it signifies my husband. It takes the place of honor closest to my heart, where my pulse can be felt. Another charm is an arrow, the symbol for my son, who has always been protective and has a choice of which direction his life will go. The elephant charm is an ode to the trip I took with my daughter, a fiercely independent and loyal child. Next comes the tiara for my grandaughter, my little princess and then the globe, for my grandson, my whole world. Finally, a tree, to show my family, friends and faith. They keep my rooted and reaching for more. With two more grandchildren on the way and a bonus granddaughter here, I have been considering additional charms. My bracelet, just as my heart, holds the capacity for more.

My tattoo is not a piece of artwork, it isn’t the most intricate and holds no colors. Yet for me, the beauty of each glance at my wrist, each reminder to lift someone up in prayer, is that I know my church family is joining me. I can look at the arrow and see years of prayer, faithful friends and strangers alike who have lifted this child and now man up through many life struggles. I am reminded I am not alone. I glance at the elephant and I see friends who know my daughter, really know her. People who prayed for our safety throughout our South East Asia backpacking trip and celebrated her successes as a young woman traveling  on her own, who have wrapped her in love and prayer when she was pregnant with our princess who now receives her own prayers from the same long-distance friends and family, those she has yet to meet. I pray for my daughter and granddaughter but know I am not alone in those prayers.  The globe, these same people have been praying for this child almost from the moment of conception. He is one of our church’s own, a boy so wrapped in the love of God and the faithful acts of His people, I know I am never alone as I lift him up to God.

As I look at the tree, my family and friends, I am reminded to be thankful, to not just ask but to praise God for His blessings of those who are joined with us, chained with our little family into the larger family of God. Those branches give us shelter, encourage us to climb higher. We stay rooted in His Word by their example and know we are bound together. Maybe a simple cross necklace provides this comfort for others, I needed my own rosary, specific beads to define my prayers. A Catholic ritual brought into our Methodist traditions. Joys and concerns shared not just on Sundays but with every glance at my wrist.

I have a tattoo that reminds me I am never alone in my worries, fears, joys and celebrations. May you be filled with such a reminder every moment as well, may you know that even in the darkness when trees seem to obstruct the light, you are rooted in the family of God. May you find comfort in knowing your joys and concerns are shared by all those encircled by the faith.

My Own Story

On By LisaIn Arrow, Faith, Stella3 Comments

When I was maybe in 8 or 9 my cousin gave me a diary for Christmas. My own secret place to write my thoughts and feelings, someplace to record the inner me. Probably most little girls had diaries, with tiny golden locks which gave a false sense of security. I loved that diary, my first book. I snuck into my closet to jot down the most important secrets an adolescent girl could have, does this boy like me or does that one, do I like him or the other one. I thought my writings were safe within that little book, behind the little lock. I had two brothers though, one 4 years older who thought it would be hilarious to violate that privacy and make his own entries into my writing. The pages were filled with pictures (he never was a writer) of stick figures and clouds of farts.  I never wrote in the diary again. My sacred place was ruined.

My father was furious, the boys were in serious trouble. Of course he must have been terrified at what I had written and what they might have read. A secret keeper writing things down? Very dangerous stuff. I didn’t write about the real secrets, my inner most quandaries, the deepest hurts. Surface worries only, dipping my toe in, maybe, testing whether it was safe to tell all. It wasn’t. I didn’t. Not for a very long time. How differently would my life have turned out had I actually written about the abuse in our home and handed my writings to a trusted teacher? But I was shut down, before any truth came out.

My blog is somewhat like my new diary, a place to share my story and my perspective. I have published my deepest feelings, shared shameful events, celebrated soaring joys. My story though is not just my own because I am connected, I am joined even if the bonds are broken through divorce and estrangement. As much as I would like to have some relationships forever terminated, never to hear from an ex-spouse or his wife again, I am forced to confront that once joined, we are never truly released from those bonds. As much as I would love to write about the beautiful reconciliation of all the brokenness in our family, that is not this story, at least not yet. So, while they each have their perspective and side and truths, I have mine and my feelings and thoughts and search for meaning through it all. The difference between my diary and this blog though is that it is faith based, I am searching and seeking with my adult eyes and a mature soul to find healing in the hurts, to share what is broken in me and my connections to my children, the sins of my past to find the redemption that comes with grace.

I am searching for a way home, a way to that place where connections feel good instead of threatening. Where words written are seen as a victory that one woman who was silenced for over 50 years found her voice. I am seeking those who understand imperfections and dings and dents. Just as my father was terrified of what I might write, how much trouble he could get in if I told the truth of his sexual abuse, there are those who wish I would be silent again. Violating my sacred space every much as my brothers did long ago, texts with threats, emails with demands, it all boils down to fear. Fear of truth, fear of getting into trouble, just like my father. Had he not been doing anything wrong, it wouldn’t have mattered. A little girl’s diary could be just that, her story. A woman’s blog can be just that, her story.

I write a great deal about addiction. Anyone who has attended even one family session at a rehab center knows that it is a family disease. The addict is not the only one in need of healing. All those around who enable, deny, support, rescue the user are reenforcing the disease. When I write about my experiences with my son, it is from the place of a mother who has spent the last decade dealing with his use and relapses, supporting him through thousands of dollars in inpatient and intensive outpatient services and attending every session available to us. We joined in his recovery. We were invested in the healing portion of the family disease. We supported him through his legal issues. When I write about addiction, it is with the eyes and heart of a mother who has traveled that very broken road and no longer accepts lies or excuses, won’t be part of any addiction family unit that includes continued use. This is my perspective. Addicts all have their own.

I write a great deal about the brokenness of my relationship with my daughter. A young woman who married and began an estrangement like it was a wedding gift she just opened, the present her new husband gave her. A matching set, like the one he has with his own mother, if you will.  Brokenness in relationships takes more than one act though, it takes a series of wrongs, escalated to the point of no return. Forgiveness can’t seem to find a way into this relationship, I write about my aches. As much as she may wish to have our association forever destroyed, that web is connected from multiple sides. Estrangement is like that, one edge may be severed, the other still hangs on. This is my perspective, surely she has her own.

I write a great deal about the sexual abuse that occurred in my childhood, the damage that led me to try to save other children. I write about failing, about taking my damaged psyche and soul into a setting where more trauma happened. Sharing such intimate details, risky and freeing at the same time. Like a phoenix rising from the ashes, I just keep getting up, starting over. My mistakes are pretty public, no chance to hide from them. My life diary has been read by many, interpreted, analyzed, gleaned for salacious nuggets to spread. When the book is already opened, it no longer matters though. My past is part of me but not the whole me, not the now me. That is the beauty of redemption, the glory of grace.

I write a great deal about looking for the light in dark times. This is a dark time. I am looking for the hope that comes from the One who understands that even when we try to break those connections, He is always there. I am seeking the grace that comes from the One who knows my sins and still forgives me. I am seeking the Light that shines on my value and worth as a child of God, my wholeness in Him, sharing the warmth that comes when secrets no longer have power and diaries don’t need locks.

This is my story, my search for meaning. The resurrection of my voice, the renewal of my writing, a window into my faith and the slow process of healing. May you find your own story as freeing, as filled with hope and redemption. May you follow the path God sets out for you, with Him guiding your motives, may you find renewal of your soul in leaning into the light, escaping the darkness of anger, fear, hate, bitterness.  Thanks for reading and supporting the opening of my life, may grace follow you today.
Renewal